The Fioretti is a literary journal consisting of original submissions and editing from contributing students at Marian University, Indianapolis.

Date Digital

2011

Type

Periodicals, Text

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FioRETTi
FioRETTi
MARiAN collEGE
liTERARY ANTl-loloGY
. . VOlUME Tl-liRTY-TWO
NUMbER ONE
197~-1974
Ed i TOR kATJ..lE EN G iESTiNG
.. WiT~ T~E ~Elp of .
MARG iE bEdEI
JOAN RyAN
2
CO NTENTS
5 Requiescat/Cindy Pio
6 A Modern Christmas Story/Kathleen Giesting
8 Goal/Michael Wallace
9 mad fly .. ./Joan Ryan
11 "Mei "/Michael Wallace
12 In the mysticalland .. ./Kathleen Giesting
16 In Mourning/Elaine Watson
17 Days,melted .. ./Pat Paquin
18 Stand tall, walk .. ./Herb Finke
19 Notes to an "Owl" I know/Sr. Francesca Thompson
20 Reflection on Love/Joseph Kempf
21 Life .. ./Donna Meyers
22 The Ocean/Linda Hagan
23 The Flaming Sword/Joe Rea
28 coming down .. ./Donna Meyers
Photos on pages 4,14, and 22 are by J aimie Pinto.
The cover design is by Kathleen Giesting. The artwork appearing
on pages 7 and 19 is by Mary Clare. Chris Auberry is responsible
for page 18.
REQui ESCAT
Cindy Pio
Today,
early,
the horizon glowed golden for a brief moment.
And that grand star
stepped slowly, majestically ou t of the night,
and created day.
Earthlings stirred,
aroused by the brilliant birth.
And most commenced to just live,
simply and naturally.
But self-named "homo sapiens"
(so-called for feigning intelligence)
set about contaminating today,
cluttering its fleeting seconds
with sorrow,
with frustration,
and always, always
the thoughts and ideas and plans
for the future.
He fancies himself a divine architect of some sort,
this "homo sapiens"
laden as he is with all his
groundplans and blueprints for the superstructure
he calls tomorrow.
He plots and graphs and toils, and yet
the finished product wobbles a bit,
not at all what he had in mind,
nothing at all like he'd planned.
So daily he begins anew,
cementing his dreams together
with mounds of hope
and not just a touch of fear.
And yet.. .....
Red, exhausted,
the aged sun neared its sepulcher
where daily it dies
and lays itself to rest.
Yet it lingered,
only momentarily,
and then carried with it to death
the very child to which it had given birth.
To~y .
passed on thus,
ignored,
uncelebrated,
unrealized as a tomorrow fulfilled
now forever yesterday. '
A ModERN C~RisTMAS
Kathleen Giesting
To begin this story in the traditional manner we will begin
with --- Once upon a time, long ago but not too far a way, there lived in
Indianapolis a small boy who longed to grow up and become a Santa
Claus for the Salvation Army --- ringing bells for collections on the street
corners of Cincinnati (everyone knows that Cincinnati is the only place
to be a bell-ringing Salvation Army Santa).
Well, this little boy's name was Tommy and he had been
certain ever since his third birthday that he wanted to become a Salvation
Army Santa. Now he was six years old and Christmas was coming again.
Tommy decided that it was about time he started his career before the
~ield got too filled up (he had been noticing an awful lot of Santas around
lately). So Tommy decided to ask his friend Max , the policeman, who
knew almost everything, how it was you became a Santa for the Salvation
Army. (Tommy wasn't a religious fanatic or anything --- it's just that he'd
never seen any Santas that weren't from the Salvation Army.) Max , your
typical "County Mountie" and all around nice guy, told Tommy that he
_ was too young to be a Salvation Army Santa Claus. Tommy was crushed.
He was certain that if he didn't become a Santa this year, there woul~
never be another chance (you know how hard it is to get any kind of job
nowadays) so he decided to go straight up to one of the Salvation Army
Santas and ask him where he could sign up.
The first Santa he approached was grumpy from the cold and
ringing his bell with very little enthusiasm. fIe simply ignored Tommy's
even being there. The Santa on the next corner was a kind old gent though,
and Tommy asked him how he could become a Salvation Army Santa.
The old man laughed and said, "Someday, if you really want
it, you can be just like me, collecting money for gifts for poor people. But
right now you have a much more important job to do."
Tommy was puzzled. "What could possibly be more important
than bell-ringing Salvation Army Santas? "he asked.
The Santa smiled at him and said, "Enjoy your young years
and spread the joy of your youth; it is worth more than all the money in
my pot."
And Tommy smiled as he walked home, kicking a stone be-fore
him.
6
GOAl
Michael Wallace
World spins, spirals top-like taster
Spinning to spin in nano-second flash
Cadence unbroken in unsyncopated motion
Auto-men, computomen spitting sounds furiously
In sane aggressive in a blind order maddness
Faster they hiss in their hurried machinations
Clocks accelerate, gears clicking in timeless sea
Of rush--rush--rush,. clack hiss.
"The goal, the goal" their frenzied cry travels at the
Deafening speed of vibrated air. whooosh! clang.
Seven hundred head-splitting miles per cycle
Bombarding bothered eardrums, beat, beat, beat!
Nerves flash, synopses active in neuro-chemical haste
Message after message after message after mess ..... .
Information ... communication .. .integration. . -
Now no time to lose! Reassemble . Imperative.
Must respond: tune impulses to the rythmn
Ascend descend rise 'n fall round 'n round .
Lubricate the friction, perpetual motion in time warp
fashion. Redesign now! efficiency now! how?
Atomic energetic hourglass hands whirling, ripping
Tearing away; tick-tock, rip-rock. precise vise .
Squeezing the slow. Zipping through the wires
No slow , no slow. Go! Go!! Go!!!
Streaking in and out faster faster!
Straining mach schnell mach schnell
No room in workd breathing speed, for snail
Popping reds amphetamine gazelle
Light show laser scintillation
Time disappears in eyeless whir
Blurring headlong hurtling where?
Remember the fable: tortoise and hare?
"The goal" they cry echoing
falling through the distant universe
Like a black leopard in heat
Impaling herself in sexual fury on the
jagged release of death.
8
mad fly,
bouncing inside the lampshade,
the light makes you crazy.
I'll turn it off.
mad fly ;
you lie in darkness.
was it better to be crazy
in the light?
9
Joan Ryan
"MEi"
Michael Wallace
Today I went to the museum
Me and myself stayed home
For I went alone
Love statue swallowed me whole
though I had the strength to fight
me won and I fell in
I put no stock in such a thing, love
Foolish to invest with no insured return
but me needs you(whoever you may be)
me foolish and timid please let me in
I bought butterflies and bells to win
the I in you
though the you me like is really the me you
I strut and swear like poppa bear
and me squeaks in fright
at the sight
of Goldilocks
You may have my porridge
And don't mind I, he's just me.
11
In the mystical land of Hush~a-bye
far and far away
A young girl caught a young man's eye
and he to her did say,
"Where tend thee now my pretty maid?
Where do thy footsteps wend?"
So prettily the young girl said,
"I go to seek a friend."
"A friend you've found,
Your friend I'll be!"
the young man cried in joy.
"And we'll sail away
O'er the sparkling sea
we'll all our time employ
in seeking shells
and wadif!g brooks
and tending flowers sweet.
We'll question how we e'er deserved
to share a joy so meet."
The young girl's eyes with tears brimmed full
"My friend you ne'er can be.
The friend I seek
I needs must seek
he has been promised me.
I dare not tarry on my way
he waits; he comes for me.
I ne'er shall seek the sparkling shells
or wade in babbling brook.
My love was promised
ere I was.
My love too soon he took.
He stole me from my mother's arms
from hearth and home and kin.
He wooed me with the promises
of-Oh!-what might have been!
We go to a darkness never lit
by fire or moon or sun,
Where smiles are merely fancies
hardly half begun.
12
'Tis cold and bleak--this bitter place
where sun has ne'er been seen
I hesitate, yet hurry on
I move as in a dream.
A nightmare now--
the Fates did spin
Those woeful sisters three
charting a new life for him,
cruel death for me."
"Why go thee then?"
the young man said,
"Come fly with me, come flee."
"I needs must go"
the young girl said,
"He waits; he comes for me.
Wedded now must I be his
We walk in death and life
I needs must live and die in him
I needs must be his wife."
Eternal circle--circ1e round
the lifeless trees of winter frown
the young man the young girl part
springtime lives in lovers' hearts
summer sees them smile anew
autumn too soon brings the dew
life has tarried far too long-­Death
will sing the victory song.
Kathleen Giesting
1~
IN MOURNiNG
Elaine Watson
Today I glanced over my shoulder,
and it was you.
-There you stood.
I could feel the glares
from the corners of our eyes,
pulling together as with magnetic force.
Still, neither of us possessed the courage
to meet face to face.
The memories of all we had shared
were tempting me to speak,
but pride arrived promptly on the scene
tieing my tongue in a million knots.
When I think of our impromptu
encounter,
the lump that was in my throat
suddenly reappears,
and seems to grow like a cancer
as I remember that our romance is dead.
The disease with which we were stricken
was stubborness
. with its complications, jealousy, anger and pride,
Why is it that the warmest of romances
fade like a suntan in mid-September?
16
Pat Paquin
Days, melted like waxen drops
Sliding off a candle
Harden in a cold unity
at its base;
Each day, each drop a piece
of the whole
Transformed by an uncontrollable
natural force :
be it fire, or
be it love
When each pays its toll,
The Whole will never be the same.
17
18
Stand tall, walk tall
Soldier, little boy.
Momma calls, the sun's down.
up the shallow moon __
birds wane, owls wax
swallow pride, sleep.
Herb Finke
NOTES TO AN
"Owl" I kNOW ~~- ~ .-:=:-
.c-
I have
Seen the
Shadows in your
Eyes
That speak to me
Of your
Sorrowing-sadness
And your
Heavy ladened
Heart
I wo~ld not .
. ' Wish you walk
Or make your way
Without some
Darkness ....
(As long as you grope
or stumble not all
alone, devoid of light .... )
I only ask
That when you must
Travel
In the deepening dusk
There always be
STARS
To brighten up your
Nights!
Sr. Francesca Thompson
19
RE.flECTioN ON LOVE
Joseph Kempf
We two,
composed of such mind stuffs
and flesh,
caught ourselves one night
striking egos
together like steel
on flint
and conjured reflections
so bright
they made thousand-faceted
mirrors
of our bodies.
Later a single leaf
falling
shattered the image.
Somewhere in Greece
Narcissus
/struck blind/
vanishes from mirrors
of the world,
slips beneath
the silvery surface
and drowns.
20
Life
only the far side of death
a line so easy to cross over
and so beckoning
at times, so lonely
at times, so rough
bleeding, crying, hating, useless,
yet every moment yielding something to hang onto.
give up and you lose the might have been dreams
despair, and you waste the could have been joys
consent and you live in the maybe world
of happiness today and the possibility of
another tomorrow.
21
Donna Meyers
OCEAN
Linda Hagan
I often find myself longing for the ocean. It has an air
of complete and uninterrupted freedom about it, making
me feel as though I'm in a place of solitude where I can bring
my never-ending dreams to rest. Its outstretched arms embrace
me with many thoughts. Its immensity spreads a feeling of
eternity throughout my cluttered brain. The quietness pro­jects
a feeling of loneliness, down to the deepest depths, ex­ploring
in me what is left to be uncovered, and reminding
me ...... .
I see laughter in the waves as it goes by gurgling, bub­bling,
enthusiastically flowing, unwinding its way through
the world. It's a place of dreams -- the waves coming up to
meet them and then taking them away while I continue to
hope that they will reach someone on the other side, far
away. Even being such a quiet cove, it is supplied with a
certain friendship.
I can find promises, I can share hope, and I can surely
share my emotions. For the wind blowing the waves encom­passes
the entire span of emotion. But exactly exactly what
this emotion is I really cannot know, because the tide always
changes.
I
T ~E FlAMiNG SWORd
Joe Rea
The day had begun with unusual natural beauty for the com­munity.
As the clouds of dawn made their formation you wondered
which one of the many brilliant colors would predominate over the
others. The appearance of the sun made that guesswork needless. Its
strong bright rays supplied the answer as the day took the form of a
cloudless, hot and muggy extension on our lives.
I would not go to work today for the community. There was
other work planned for me. I had perpetrated a pretty heavy offense.
It seemed that I had not been happy for a while. Disaffection with the
group and with life in general had warranted some controUing help. The
community's controlling device of psychotherapy was in store for me,
or rather, I was in store for it.
The modern air-conditioned psychiatry offices in the medical com­plex
were pleasant to walk into that day. No one paid much attention to
me as I came in simply because there was no one in the waiting room. I
was alone in that spacious place. An old familiar feeling of uniqueness
came creeping into my skull. "So here I am alone" I thought, "I must be
a special case." This attitude, I vaguely felt, was in essence the reason that
I was standing here now.
"Come on into the back, Mr. Bnrrhus" the old nurse smilingly bec­koned.
"The doctor wiU be with you in a moment."
. The office resembled the outside hall and waiting room in that it
was cool and comfortable. However, it differed from the passive sim­plicity
I had just left as it appeared ready for action. The affect in there
must have been transmitted by the large amount of apparatus. The situ­ation
was also made more pressing by the reduced amount of space in
which that equipment could somehow close in and pounce on you.
"Hello, Mr. Burrhus" said the voice at my back. "I am llictor
Renniks and I have come to help you."
"Y ou want to help me, doctor? "
"Sure, I would like to see you happy. I want to see you in a peace­ful
relation with the community here. You must be at one with your en­vironment.
This is what I want, Mr. Burrhus."
"You are welcome to try, Doc."
"O.K. Go lie down on that couch over there and we can start talking."
"Gee, Doc, I have never been analyzed before. I almost got brave for
a minute until you said that. You have just appealed to my warped and .
stereotyped misconception of head-shrinking. The next thing you will want
to know is if I ever hated my father."
The g,9od doctor did not laugh. It was just as well since he would
have had no one to laugh with.
"Actually, Mr. Burrhus, I will try to do the most talking. In answer
to your statement about hating your father, well, we probably know more
about that than you do. You are the third generation of your family here
in this particular community. Your personal history is carefully filed down­stairs
and is very, very complete."
"That is fine, doctor. Now, tell me why you people have to go dig­ging
up those files."
"Your case is not extremely peculiar, Mr. llirrhus, but it does war­rant
some serious consideration. You show signs of some slight maladjust­ment.
Your behavior is characteristic of those small, scattered groups on
the outside of all the established communities who refuse conformance
with society at large. You do know to what I am referring? "
"Yes, Doctor Renniks."
The small and scattered groups on the outside made up society's
behavioral hermits. For some unknown reason these few had not com­plied
with society's standards. They refused the set environmental pat­tern
offered to them and instead sought other modes of living. All evi­dence
had shown that this small band of humanity was apparently failing.
The voice of Renniks began to push my inner voice into the back
seat for a while as it took over the wheel.
"Those people out there will not last with their system simply be-
. cause they have no system to begin with" said Renniks. "Science now
knows that all human behavior is a function of the variables in a given
environment. Whatever you do or decide not to do is dependent only up­on
outside factors. This, llirrhus, is called a behavioral repertoire. We all
have one. It consists of the responses we make to certain stimuli. Every
response will either be reinforced or left unreinforced or possibly punished.
Thus, the probability of any action which will be taken depends upon the
reinforcement or the lack of it."
This was elementary stuff learned by our grade-schoolers. However,
in my case, a refresher course must have been considered necessary. I in­wardly
writhed with doubt as the doctor continued.
. "There are unfortunate by-products in controlling behavior" he
explained. "I like to call them anomalies. This is especially true if control
is excessive or inconsistent. If this happens then we get escape, revolt or
maybe passive resistance of some kind. In escape there appears the an­chorite
from the ethical group. This type may renounce citizenship or be
anti-social. Revolt consists of counter-attacking the controlling agent
through criticism or active physical fighting. Not behaving in conformity
with controlling practices shapes passive resistance.
24
"These anomalies have al ways nept up in history. dodoI'. How do
you propose to stop them'! "
"The controlling agell